


Snowstorms and Soup

by existentialflu (sotakeabitofcalpol)



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, because it's Jakes and Morse, brief case talk, mostly - Freeform, snow?, soup as a major plotpoint?, with a sprinkling of - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:55:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22213657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sotakeabitofcalpol/pseuds/existentialflu
Summary: Snow did come to Oxford back thenAnd, because he has no chill, Morse turns out to have a strange talent for cooking soupAKA I toe the line between crackfic, fluff and angst far too close
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse/Joan Thursday
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	Snowstorms and Soup

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Who Says I Do?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21387175) by [LadyAJ_13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13). 



> So I was making soup the other day and reading the disaster trio series and then this sorta just happened. Whoops

Snow, thought Jakes idly, was brilliant. Beautiful, just great, except when you where on callout on the other side of the city, stuck in some field with a body. It'd started falling thick and fast as they'd arrived at the scene, to a lot of grumbling officers and a woman's body. Open and shut case. Gun and a note.

The drive back had been miserable; soaked through from the scene, heater doing absolutely nothing, crawling along the road, with Thursday sending him disapproving looks every time the speedometer crept too high. Joan wouldn't be home yet. Her shift ended a bit later, and besides, the buses wouldn't run in this, so she'd have to walk. He'll have to walk too, after dropping the car. At least Morse might be home. Bright had been unusually stern on chucking him out on time recently, so he'll have had time to walk back to their flat. Maybe he'll have put the heating on.

It's a relief to get back to the station and see the place shut; Morse'll definitely be home, because the pubs have all been shut too. He tugs his coat closer around him, and steps back out again.

He's always loved the snow. Between the shitty parts of Blenham, there'd been snowball fights with the other kids, so there's a weird sense of nostalgia, that gets even weirder when he gets hit by a snowball.

Joan is running towards him, huge grin on her face. She almost face plants as she reaches him, so she grabs for him, but it just brings them both down, giggling in the snow. Her cold nose tickles his cheek, and they just lie there for a second.  
"How was your day?"  
"Good. Boring. Yours?"  
"A body in a field. Haven't seen Morse for a while. Missed you both."  
"Aw, you've gone all sappy."  
"Shut up."  
Another second of pleasant silence.  
"Shall we get up?"  
"Probably sensible."

He wraps his jacket round them both, and they set off again, snow falling even faster as they turn into their road.

The door opens almost as soon as they reach it, Morse ushering them in, and shutting it behind them. They both sandwich him into a hug, which he accepts with mock unwillingness, then plants them both on the sofa, under blankets with mugs of warm tea.  
"Morse..."  
"You're both freezing. I walked back myself, I know you're cold, so don't try anything. Just drink your tea."  
The tea is actually welcome, and he is tired and cold, and he drifts off quickly, curled up on the sofa with the people he loves.

He wakes up a while later to an absence of heat on one side, and a smell he can't quite identify. Something with herbs in. Joan must be making stew.

Except Joan is still curled up next to him, and as a result not the one clattering quietly in the kitchen. He rolls out from under his blanket, into the cold air, and has a look around. His and Joan's mugs are empty on the table, but Morse's cup is missing, as is his boyfriend, and the record player is quietly playing something opera-y, which means...  
"Peter, you'll freeze, get back under the blanket."  
He's appeared from the narrow doorway to their kitchen, towel in one hand, and bits of carrot stuck to the other, looking, in Peter's flustered mind, very very attractive.  
"Morse, are you making soup?"  
He looks down at his feet, hand at the back of his neck, and Peter can't help but giggle.  
"It was snowing, and you two were out in the cold. I thought..."  
Joan, still huddled in blankets, half asleep on the sofa, poked her head out slightly.  
"Morse, that's so sweet. Peter's just being mean."  
"I am not, I'm just curious as to how he can make soup."  
Morse looks up, slightly defensive.  
"I can cook, you know."  
"Tell that to every meal you've burnt."  
"Joanie, back me up. I can cook."  
"Asleep. Not responding to that."  
Peter sloped over to where Morse was still stood in the doorway, ruffling his hair and pulling him into a kiss, which the man gratefully accepted.  
"Come on then, let's taste it."  
"Give me one minute."  
Morse ducks back round the door, and the hob turns off. There's a clatter of bowls, and the sound of Morse drumming his nails against the counter.  
"Peter."  
He turns as best he can to look at Joan, who's got her head on his shoulder, still huddled in blankets.  
"Joanie."  
"D'you reckon he can actually make soup?"  
"I hope so, but last week's pie..."  
She starts giggling into his shoulder, forcing him to turn awkwardly to press a kiss to her forehead.   
"How was that raw and burnt at the same time?"  
"I don't know. I don't know."  
"What don't you know?"  
Morse walks back in, bowls in hand. Somehow he's managed to stack a bottle of whiskey and glasses with it, which Peter gratefully grabs, while Joan helps him unstack. Years ago, he'd imagined something like this, before Blenham had built its shell around him. He's the luckiest man in the goddamn planet, to have these two.

It's nothing complicated, the soup, just vegetables in broth, and bread on the side, but it smells heavenly. He digs in, acutely aware he hasn't actually eaten since breakfast, and sees Joan and Morse do the same.  
"Crap, Morse, that's..."  
"I apologise for maybe insulting your cooking earlier."  
He smiles, that genuine smile that he's only just started actually using.  
"It's fair, I can't cook anything else."

All conversation dries up in place of them digging in.

"Wanna go for a walk?"  
"You only just warmed up from the last one!"  
"Yeah, but it's snowing!"  
"Not my thing, but you two can go."  
Something's wrong. He's all hunched in on himself. Joan's the one who asks, though.  
"Morse?"  
He sighs, clearly unwilling to tell or lie. The former wins out.  
"Both my parents died while it was snowing. It's stupid. It wasn't even snow that killed them. I'm sorry."  
Joan simply goes and lays in his lap. He sets his fingers in her hair. She shoots him the _get our stubborn boyfriend to talk_ look.  
"Morse."  
"No, it's stupid."  
"And what? I'm still shit scared of certain _words_. Why would you be any different?"  
"I..."  
"We were the same age when you lost your mum, right? How many times have you told me I'm alright to feel like this?"  
"Ok."  
Joan pipes up from her spot.  
"Was it your mum who taught you to make soup?"  
"No, my own thing. She was ill, so I did the cooking. It was the only thing I could manage."  
"Well, you're good at it."  
"Thanks."  
Peter stands, replacing the record,crossing the room, and offering them both a hand each. They both look confused.  
"Dance with me."  
"That's not going to... I don't dance."  
"You do better than Peter."  
"Hey!"  
"Moonlight rooms."  
Morse takes his hand, dragging him away from the conversation. The record is apparently swing. He didn't really look at it.

Morse pulls him into something that's probably an old ballroom hold, and starts to spin to the tune. Peter manages to instantly trip over his feet, to the amusement of both partners.  
"You think you can do better?"  
They can, apparently, as evidenced by the way Morse sweeps her into hold.

And the snow goes on, unheeded as the three dance in their flat.


End file.
